


Second Sight

by Blondie54x



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen, Minor Violence, Psychic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 09:05:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4823189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blondie54x/pseuds/Blondie54x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya has gone missing.  Napoleon gets help from an unusual source.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second Sight

In the cold, damp basement of an anonymous building, Josef Stoltz shook with ill-suppressed rage. Like an angry dog, he stalked from one side of the room to the other, trying to calm his thunderous temper.

To say he was disappointed would be a gross understatement. He had thought about this meeting for the past four months--every week, every day--and now, his anticipation of this moment had been cruelly snatched away from him. He felt inexplicably empty, deflated, like a pricked balloon.

He turned his fury on the underling responsible for this shambles, viciously backhanding him across the face. “How could you be so stupid?” he hissed.

The smaller man before him cringed away, rubbing at the stinging spot on his cheek. “I’m sorry, Joe. It was dark, I thought...”

“You thought, you thought,” Stoltz repeated in a whining mockery of the man. Angrily, he turned, striding over to the figure held captive between two of his men. He slipped a flick knife from his pocket and pressed the catch to release the bright blade. Grabbing a handful of the captive’s hair, he pulled the head back and quickly drew its edge across the windpipe. He stepped back and watched as blood blossomed from the gaping wound before turning his back on his victim’s death throes. “Get rid of the body. And, Frank,” he called as the smaller man moved away, “get it right next time, or you’ll be joining him.”

 

The door to the busy police station pushed open and Danny Maguire entered, looking nervously about the place. He didn’t want to be here. Every nerve in his body screamed at him to turn and run, but something bad had happened and he couldn’t let it pass.

He stepped out of the way as a policeman dragged a scantily dressed hooker, clad in gaudy gold lamé top, towards the back of the room. The place was like Grand Central in the rush hour, the clamor of the surrounding voices vied with the unwanted voices in his head. Shakily, his hand rose to rub at his temple.

Sometimes, he wished he could switch them off, tune them out. He didn’t want to see and hear the things he did, it wasn’t something he needed in his life right now. A gift, his mother had called it: a curse, would be his description. Sometimes, like now, it was so bad, he couldn’t eat or sleep. His life was no longer his own, hadn’t been for a few years now, governed as it was by the whims, desires and actions of strangers, their images and emotions occasionally forcing their way into his psyche, like it or not. If he could just share what he knew now, if he could just tell someone about it, maybe it would go away and leave him in peace for a while.

Danny approached the officer at the main desk and waited to be noticed. The rotund, blue clad policeman finished his sentence on the paper before finally looking up.

Danny stood for the moment, rooted to the spot by the man’s gaze. _You’re gonna die soon,_ he thought with chilling certainty, as he stared at the man before him. _You don’t know it, but you’re heart’s going to give out, and no one will find you for days, because you have no friends and no one..._

“What do you want,” the desk sergeant asked tersely, pushing the remains of a jelly doughnut into his mouth. Danny watched as his pudgy fingers wiped off the excess sugar down the front of his abused uniform.

He swallowed hard and said quietly, “I want...I want to report a murder.”

 

Napoleon Solo sighed as he dropped the cover back over the very cold and very dead body of Dieter Gelder. The mortuary attendant pushed the drawer back into place and left the two U.N.C.L.E. agents alone in the chilled room.

“Why would anyone want to murder a chef?” Napoleon murmured with a puzzled frown.

Illya Kuryakin turned his attention away from his study of the examiner’s report. The black clad shoulders shrugged. “Have you tasted his Sloppy Joe?” He dropped the clipboard back onto the desk top with a hint of peevishness. “Aside from the fact that Dieter worked in the commissary at U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, why are we investigating this case? For all we know, this was a simple mugging that went wrong. Why are we looking into it?”

“Because Waverly believes we should do our own dirty laundry and he’s asked us to investigate. Besides, this was no simple mugging, and whoever killed him didn’t do it for the money. There was nothing taken; his wallet was still in his pocket. Someone cut his throat then hid the body in an old sewer. And, since there was no blood at the scene, he was killed elsewhere and dumped there. Question is, why?”

Napoleon moved to the table to study the dead man’s belongings, laid out like goods at a rummage sale. He picked up the solitary shoe; the other had not been recovered. It was badly scuffed but offered no visible evidence. The rest of his clothing was soiled with dried blood and stinking badly from the filth in the sewer. Fastidiously, he moved them around with the tip of a ball-point pen, lifting the hem of the sweater carefully towards his nose. He drew back quickly from the smell, as though he had been stung. “Ugh! Smells like he’s been cooking with rotten eggs.”

“That’s sulpher,” his partner supplied. “I wonder how it came to be on his clothes?”

Napoleon shrugged, letting the offending article drop back onto the table. He glanced over the rest of the clothing: black shoes, black suit, black sweater. “You and he must have had the same tailor,” he told his partner.

Illya glanced over at the items. “The man had taste. Anything in the wallet?”

“Yes. Seventy five bucks and two condoms. Guess he was anticipating a good time, that night.”

A combination of innate curiosity and boredom took the Russian over to a tray of instruments by an examination table. Picking up a scalpel, he gestured carelessly with it in Napoleon’s direction as he said, “By the way, while we’re on the subject of having a good time, if you’re taking Julia out tomorrow night, don’t take her to the Dionysos. She doesn’t like Greek food, she likes Italian.”

Napoleon tucked his pen back in his pocket, slightly irritated by his partner’s annoying foresight. While Napoleon was the one blessed with remarkably good fortune, Illya seemed to have the uncanny ability to read his partner’s mind. A product of their close, working relationship. Napoleon found it extremely irksome at times. “How do you know where I planned to take her?”

Illya dropped the scalpel and poked amongst the shiny instruments, turning his attention to a bone saw. “You’re a creature of habit, Napoleon. You flit between restaurants as often as you flit between women.” He sighed, jumping up to sit irreverently atop a chrome post-mortem table. “This is hopeless. No finger prints, no clues, no nothing. What did the witness to his kidnapping say?”

Napoleon shrugged. “He was just walking along, car pulled up, two men jumped out and dragged Dieter inside.” He paused, tugging thoughtfully on his lower lip. “How do you know she likes Italian?”

“I took her out, once. Any descriptions?”

“Blue car of indeterminate make; driver, nondescript; kidnappers, nondescript. You took her out, when?”

“A couple of months ago.” Napoleon pulled a face. He didn’t much like the idea of getting Illya’s leftovers. Besides, his partner dated intellectuals who liked to talk--not Napoleon’s idea of a good night out at all. Illya smiled sweetly at him, apparently reading his mind once again. “Trust me, Napoleon, she’s much more your type than mine. License plate?”

“Obliterated by mud.”

“How convenient. What about Dieter’s apartment?”

“On the list of ‘things to do’. Why don’t you follow that up and I’ll go to the police station and see if I can talk to the man who found the body.” He turned to leave, pausing at the door to wait for his partner. “Italian, huh?” He straightened his tie, giving his friend a quick sidelong glance. “At least the woman has some taste.”

        

Introductions over and identities checked, Napoleon stood next to Chris Parker of the NYPD in a small ante-room adjacent to the interview area. The glass panel before him was mirrored on the other side, allowing the observers to view the interrogation without the interviewee’s knowledge.

Danny Maguire was a small man, who looked a good ten years older than his thirty years. His dark hair, lank and greasy, framed a round face which was pale and pinched with anxiety. If Parker hadn’t told him that Maguire was related to one of the wealthiest families in Boston, Napoleon would have guessed, by the man’s appearance, that he couldn’t scrape together the change to buy a newspaper.

Maguire sat at the table with his shoulders slumped, fingers playing idly with the frayed cuff of his sleeve. By the time Napoleon was seated, the interview was already in progress.

“You told Detective Parker where the body was. How did you know?”

“I saw it.”

“You were at the scene when it happened?”

“No. I saw it. I already told you this,” Danny repeated impatiently, his hand rising to rub at this forehead.

Detective Greco sighed. “Saw what, Danny? Saw the murder or saw the body being dumped?”

“I explained this. I have these visions, I see things happening, okay? I saw him killing the guy. I felt his hand on the knife. I could... I could feel him slice through the guy’s throat.” _Just like a hot knife through butter._ Danny started to shake, sweat beading his upper lip as his mind replayed the scene in graphic detail. “Do you have a cigarette?” he asked. The officer pushed a packet towards him and watched trembling hands light up.

“I don’t believe in fortune tellers, Danny. How did you know where to find the body?”

“I don’t tell fortunes.” He sighed wearily. “Sometimes, I just see things. Why don’t you believe me?”

“C’mon, Danny, you’re asking me to believe you’re psychic? The information didn’t materialize out of thin air. Was it you? Were you involved in this man’s death?”

The small man’s face whipped up in disgust. “No!”

“Then, tell me how you knew?” the officer demanded.

“I have told you, over and over--” Danny stopped abruptly. He turned towards the mirror and his face creased as he stared hard in concentration, trying to pinpoint something. Napoleon leaned forward as the man’s intense gaze seemed to settle on the agent.

“Danny!” The questioning detective tried to draw his attention back, but Maguire stood and walked over to the mirror.

He paused before it and stared directly into Napoleon’s eyes. Napoleon stared back, shifting uncomfortably. “Can he see us?” he asked Parker.

“Nope. Maybe he’s just checking out his appearance,” Parker said with a laugh.

“Back in your chair, Danny,” commanded the questioning detective, grasping hold of the man’s arm. Danny tugged free, his stare never leaving Napoleon’s face as he said firmly, “He wants the other one.”

Strange, but there was no doubt in Napoleon’s mind, that the statement was directed at him. He concentrated on the man before him as Maguire spoke again, tugging at his own greasy. “The man with the golden hair. Your friend. This one was a mistake. He wants the other.” Danny moved away, allowing the detective to guide him back to a chair but never taking his eyes away from the unseen agent. Napoleon shivered, unaccountably cold in the heated environment. Golden hair? Did he mean Illya?

The questioning continued but Maguire had lapsed into a sulky silence, glancing occasionally over at the mirror, before crossing his arms and refusing to talk any more.

 

Dieter’s apartment was small; a typical bachelor pad with scant furniture and bad-taste decoration. Like Illya, the Dutchman had a bookshelf full of books. Unlike the Russian’s, they consisted mostly of cook-books and recipes from around the world. Sitting on the windowsill, two forlorn goldfish swam endlessly around a small, circular fishbowl. Illya briefly considered flushing them down the toilet, since they were now, effectively, homeless, but he couldn’t bring himself to commit such a callous act. Instead, he sprinkled a few flakes of fish food on the surface, deciding he would return later and take them home with him.

He hated this type of work, poking around other people’s belongings. Invasion of privacy was abhorrent to him, if sometimes necessary. But, Dieter didn’t have many personal belongings to poke through. With the exception of the few magazines secreted under the mattress that showed his tastes tended towards the more masculine, he learned nothing new from the apartment that he hadn’t already suspected, and certainly nothing of relevance to this case.

He left the apartment with a feeling of disappointment. Nothing. No secret diary, no coded letters, no hidden documents; nothing to suggest he was involved in anything other than cooking second rate food. And a private life that should, Illya decided, remain private. He trotted down the steps of the apartment block and onto the street, turning his face into the light drizzle of rain that had started while he was inside. The coolness was refreshing after the stuffiness of the chef’s apartment and he wished he could walk back to Del Floria’s instead of the short drive.

As he started back towards the car, someone called his name. He turned, and his vision was instantly filled by the sight of a large fist, a microsecond before it connected with the side of his head. The blow knocked him backwards to the pavement, momentarily stunning him and, before he could push himself upright, strong hands yanked him roughly up. As he prepared to defend himself against the two thugs gripping tightly to his arms, something hard and unyielding smacked across the back of his skull. His world went black.

 

Danny rose from the cot as he sensed the agent approach the holding cell. He knew he would come. He had to, otherwise Danny wouldn’t be released from the nightmares.

Napoleon appeared before him at the bars. “Mr. Maguire,” he acknowledged with a nod.

“Call me Danny. I knew you’d come,” the smaller man said with a grin.

“Danny, my name is Napoleon Solo. I’m with the U.N.C.L.E.”

Maguire was shaking his head impatiently. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Look, you have to do something about this. I can’t make them believe me.”

Napoleon was having trouble believing it himself. “Back in the interview room, you said ‘it was a mistake’. What did you mean? Dieter Gelder’s murder?”

“Yes. They picked up the wrong man. The one who was butchered, he was fair, right? A little like your pal. They made a mistake, see? They got the wrong man.”

“Danny, how do you know this?”

Danny sat back down on the bunk with a monumental sigh. “Sometimes I see things. My mother used to say I had second sight.”

“And, what exactly did you see?”

Maguire hesitated a moment, running short, stubby fingers through long, greasy hair. “I saw somebody murder this guy. It was as though I was inside the killer, seeing it through his eyes, feeling it through his hands, everything he did. And, boy, was he pissed. They brought the wrong man, see, and he went crazy, slit his throat. It was awful...” Maguire lapsed into silence.

“Does this, um, kind of thing happen all the time,” Napoleon asked casually, finding the whole thing implausible. “Seeing things, I mean.”

Maguire looked up at him. “I can see a lot of things, when I choose to. Most of the time, I don’t choose to. But, sometimes, like now, I can’t block it out. It’s just screaming for attention, and I have to do something about it or go crazy.” Napoleon’s face remained bland, unconvinced. “You don’t believe me,” Danny said, stating a fact.

“You’ll have to forgive me if I appear a little sceptical,” Napoleon said with a smile.

“Oh, yeah?” The small man paused, then stood, peering intently into Napoleon’s dark eyes as he moved nearer the bars. Nodding to himself, he asked, “Who’s Stella?”

“Stella?” Napoleon repeated, the confident smile fading. Did he mean Stella Carlisle, his date from last night?

“Yeah. Redhead, big jugs,” Danny said, emphasizing the point by holding cupped hands a foot from his chest. “She lost an ear ring in your car last night. I guess you were too preoccupied to notice,” he added with a wink. “It’s under your seat.”

“Thank you,” Napoleon said recovering his smile a little. “I’ll be sure to return it to her.”

He turned to leave as Danny called out, “Better send it by post, she left for Las Vegas this morning.”

The U.N.C.L.E. agent paused in his stride. Stella was leaving for Vegas today, but how could Danny know that? And there was that little wrestling match in the car last night. He continued his pace, a slight frown settling about his features.

 

After a final word with Detective Parker, Napoleon left the police station and headed for the parking lot. A steady, light rain had settled in and he dashed to the car to save his suit a soaking. He settled into the driving seat and decided to give Illya a call to see how things were progressing from his end. Withdrawing the silver pen from his pocket, he paused, recalling with curiosity what Danny had told him. Leaning forward, he fished beneath his seat. A small lump caught the back of his probing hand. He carefully snagged it between two fingers and drew it out from beneath the seat, holding the item before his startled eyes for inspection. A small diamanté ear ring--same as the ones Stella was wearing last night. He remembered, because they got into his way when his mouth and tongue were taking an exploratory tour of her face and neck. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered quietly.

He tucked the small earring into his breast pocket and twisted the cap on his communicator, requesting a channel. There was no reply from his partner. He waited patiently and tried again. Napoleon frowned at the lack or response. He decided to call headquarters.

“Channel D open,” a sultry voice announced.

“Jenny? It’s Napoleon. Has Illya checked in yet?”

“Oh, hello Napoleon. No, he hasn’t. And he’s an hour overdue,” she said with an audible pout.

“Okay. Let me know if you hear from him.”

“Will do.”

He recapped the pen and stowed it away in his breast pocket, hoping there was a good reason his partner hadn’t responded to his call. Perhaps it was inconvenient at the time. Perhaps he had company and was otherwise occupied.

     

Whack! Illya dropped painfully to his knees as the baseball bat hit him squarely in the back.

So far, they had asked him no questions and he was beginning to think that maybe beating him to a pulp was their sole reason for kidnapping him. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d taken a thrashing purely for his nationality. These men didn’t look like the run-of-the-mill anti-Soviet types he’d run into before, though. They must have a motive, though their primary concern at the moment seemed to be doing as much damage as possible to him.

He cried out as the bat connected with his collar bone with a sharp crack. As it came down again for another blow, he managed to grab the end and yanked hard, pulling his antagonist off balance and into his raised fist. The man doubled over with a satisfying grunt, but before the U.N.C.L.E. agent could follow through, someone shoved him from behind, and he sprawled forward onto the hard floor. He had a moment to think that he was in a very vulnerable position, before a booted foot caught him painfully in the ribs.

                      

Napoleon Solo leaned back in his chair and sighed. He tossed the Chef’s file onto his desk amongst the other paperwork, tapping his fingers tunelessly against the armrest. Illya had been right, there were no clues and it was beginning to look as though Dieter’s death may have had no motive at all. Not for the first time that afternoon, Danny Maguire’s words came back to haunt him. _This one was a mistake... he wants the other...._

Leaning over, he flicked a switch on the panel and waited for a reply from communications. Mai Li’s musical voice replied instantly, pre-empting his request. “Hello, Napoleon and, before you ask, no, he hasn’t called in and we haven’t been able to contact him. Should I let Mr. Waverley know?”

“Please. Oh, and Mai Li? Keep trying, would you?”

“Sure thing.”

He flipped another switch. A male voice testily announced, “Information, Simon here. Who’s calling two minutes before checking out time?”

The senior enforcement agent smiled. “Hi, Si, it’s Napoleon. I need a big favour.”

“Don’t you always. Who is she and what do you need? Phone number, address...?”

“No, this is work, this time. I need some information as soon as possible on a man called Danny Maguire, address is Juniper Drive, Boston. Illya’s missing and I think he may be able to help.”

“Okay, no problem. Give me half an hour. I’ll deliver it to your office on my way out.”

“Thanks, Si, I owe you one.”

“You owe me several, but who’s counting.”

 

A shadow loomed over the unconscious Russian, then a hand holding a jug slowly tipped, emptying its cold contents over the battered face. The shock of the icy water worked like a slap to the face. Illya jerked to awareness, immediately regretting his sudden movement as a thousand assorted bruises and cuts made their presence felt. He squinted up at the figure silhouetted against the glare of a solitary light bulb dangling from the ceiling.

The tall figure above him crouched down by his head and a strong fist roughly grabbed a handful of the sodden blond hair, dragging him up into a half sitting position. Illya couldn’t have resisted the physical command even if he’d wanted to, no part of his body seemed willing to function properly. One eye was swollen shut and the other stung from the sweat that ran down his forehead.

A photograph was thrust in front of his eyes and a harsh voice whispered into his ear, “Remember this face?” Illya stared at the features of the man in the picture; young and blond, with a square jaw that betrayed his Germanic background. Yes, he remembered that face. Franz Stoltz. Four months ago, Illya had shot the man cleanly, right between the eyes, just seconds before he could depress the button on the detonator that would blow up a hijacked school bus. Stoltz was a terrorist of the worst kind, an extreme fanatic bent on taking revenge against a rich industrialist who’d refused to meet his organization’s demands. The man’s young teenage son had been on the commandeered bus and, but for Illya’s timely intervention, twelve other youngsters would have died, too.

The fist shook his head painfully, bringing him back to the question. “Do you?”

“Yes,” he replied, his voice coming out as a dry whisper.

“Good. I want you to understand why you’re going to die.” Thankfully, the hand released his hair and he fell back to the cold, hard floor. He heard the man order, “Pick him up!” and he was dragged to his feet and dropped into a wooden chair. He cried out as pain shot up his arm, sending spears of hurt to every part of his upper torso. Illya suspected his right arm was probably broken, and his collar bone most certainly was. A couple of ribs on the same side felt suspiciously delicate, too.

The photograph came back into view, along with the man holding it. Strong fingers gripped his jaw, holding his head up as the man told him, “This man was my brother. He was only twenty-one when you murdered him.”

Illya snorted at the irony of the statement. “Your brother was about to blow up a bus full of innocent children.”

“There are no innocents in war, and believe me, this is a war.”

“Then your brother knew the consequences, also. He paid the price...” His words were cut off as the hand loosened its grip to slap him across the cheek.

“I’m not interested in what you have to say, it won’t help you. I loved my brother. You have to pay for taking him away from me, and this is going to cost you dearly.” The face came closer, whispering harshly, “You will die, but not just yet. I want you to suffer first, just like I’ve suffered these last four months. I want you to feel torment and pain, just the way I did. Look around,” he advised, taking in the damp, dark surroundings, “there’s no escape from here. For you, your only escape will be death. But you have a long way to go before you are free.” He stood, turning towards one of the other men in the room. “Strip him, then burn his clothes, make sure he has no devices about him. These U.N.C.L.E. agents can be rather resourceful.”

 

Danny was almost asleep when he heard a rapping on the bar of his holding cell. Opening his eyes, he saw Solo standing there. Patiently, he waited for the U.N.C.L.E. agent to speak.

“Hello, Danny,” Napoleon said mildly.

Maguire nodded, acknowledging the agent. “Figured you’d be back.”

“I’ve been doing a little checking up on your background,” Napoleon told him. “You have quite an impressive history. Three years ago you located a missing five year old in Boulder, Colorado. Two years before that, you correctly predicted a train derailment just outside Vermont. Eight months earlier...”

“I know all this stuff. Tell me something I don’t know.”

There was a moment’s pause, before Napoleon said, “My partner’s missing.”

Maguire rose from the bunk as Napoleon continued. “Danny, I have to tell you, I’m having a hard time believing all this.”

“You want more proof? Maybe, something only you’d know about?” Napoleon didn’t reply. He stood staring down at his shoes. Danny closed his eyes, concentrating, surfing through Napoleon’s memories for something suitable. Danny didn’t like doing this, some memories were painful and this man had more than his fair share of personal nightmares. He didn’t want to open up old wounds.

Ah, but this looked promising....

“A while ago,” Danny started, “you and your partner were in New Orleans during the Mardi Gras. You were both in the bar at your hotel when this beautiful brunette walks in....

 

_Any red-blooded male would have done what he’d done. He followed her reflection in the mirror behind the bar as she glided over to stand next to him. She was almost as tall as he, with shapely legs that went, as far as he could tell, all the way up to her neck. She raised a beautifully manicured hand to get the bartender’s attention. When he approached, she said, “Dry Martini, please.” Her voice was low, husky and, Napoleon thought, sexy as hell._

_“Let me get that for you,” Napoleon offered as her hand went into her purse._

_“Why, thank you, cher.” Instead, she withdrew a packet of cigarettes, waiting patiently for him to light it for her._

_Illya, feeling suddenly like a spare part, knew when his presence was no longer required.   He nudged his friend, saying, “If you need me-- and I don’t think for one second that you will-- I’ll be over in the corner, talking to the potted plants.” He tactfully withdrew, pulling out a newspaper and settling down for a tedious evening._

_After a short while, Napoleon and his pretty new friend stood. As Napoleon walked over to Illya, the lady waited at the foot of the staircase. Illya glanced over at her and a frown settled on his forehead. There was something not quite right, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on...._

_“We’re, ah, just going up to our room for some privacy. Think you can amuse yourself for a couple of hours?”   Noticing Illya’s look of concern, Napoleon asked, “Illya? What’s up?”_

_“Oh, probably nothing.” The blond head shook with an embarrassed laugh. “I’ll be here if you need me.”_

_Napoleon smiled. “Oh, somehow, I don’t think I will.”_

_Illya watched them climb the stairs, but something still nagged at the back of his mind. He shrugged the feeling off as a young redhead in the company of two other girls caught his eye with a flirtatious smile. “Oh, well. When in Rome...” he muttered to himself as he returned her smile._

_A mere fifteen minutes later, Napoleon’s date hurried down the staircase and quickly exited the hotel. Illya frowned, muttering an apology to his new found companion before quickly dashing up to their room._

_He’d half expected to find Napoleon lying in a bloody heap, or tied up. Instead, he found him in the bathroom, vigorously cleaning his teeth._

_Illya leaned against the doorframe, watching. “Aren’t you supposed to clean your teeth before you kiss the lady?”_

_Napoleon spat out the froth. “That was no lady,” he said viciously._

_Illya smiled. “What did she do, present you with a bill?”_

_“She turned out to be a_ he _! And I kissed her. Him!” he amended._

_The Russian laughed. “I thought there was something strange about that one.”_

_Napoleon waved his toothbrush menacingly in his partner’s face. “If you ever tell anyone about this, Illya, you’re borsch!”_

_Illya tried not to smile. “My lips are sealed, Napoleon....”_

 

“...I promise.” As Danny finished, he knew from Napoleon’s astonished and slightly embarrassed face, that he was believed. He smiled reassuringly, getting back to the business at hand. “Look...I think I can help. I think I can find him for you.”

“How?”

“I have my methods. I can’t do it from a jail cell, though.”

Napoleon sighed. “I’ll see what I can do.” He left to talk to Detective Parker.

 

Napoleon decided to take Maguire back with him to his apartment. He needed to freshen up, anyway, and grab a bite to eat.

“Nice place you got here,” Danny said, as he wandered around the spacious living area, investigating the various artefacts scattered about the room. He picked up an oriental vase and Napoleon took a worried step closer, saying, “Please, be careful with that, it was a gift from my aunt.”

Danny nodded, putting it carefully back in the same position. His scrutiny turned to a small, ornamental dagger, hanging on the wall. He pulled it out of its decorative scabbard, inspecting the shiny metal.

“Um... watch yourself with that, it’s very, very sharp.”

Maguire slid it slowly back into place. As his attention went to a delicate ivory carving nearby, Napoleon finally felt the strain and took him by the arm, leading him to the sofa. “Look, why don’t you just sit down, while I go change.”

“Sure,” Danny said, leaning forward to check out a silver and agate cigarette lighter on the coffee table.

“And, don’t touch anything while I’m out of the room,” Napoleon ordered.

Danny’s hands withdrew back to his lap. He lounged back against the sofa, as he watched the agent go into the bedroom. Danny looked again at his surroundings, crossing one leg over the other, stretching an arm to rest along the back of the sofa. His feet itched--they wanted to be walking around. He uncrossed his legs with a sigh and moved to sit restlessly on the edge of the sofa. After a few more idle minutes, his fingers tapped restlessly against the arm, impatient to be up and doing something. A whiskey bottle in the small bar across the room beckoned to him and as he was about to rise to its command, Napoleon’s voice called from the bedroom, “Tell me how you’re going to find Illya.” Maguire turned his face to the open bedroom door. “I need to feel something of his, something he’s touched recently.”

Napoleon came out of the door, still buttoning up his cuffs before slipping on his jacket. “Okay, let’s go down to his apartment. We’ll rummage through his laundry basket.”

Danny pulled a face. “Okay. But no underwear,” he insisted, wagging a grubby finger in Napoleon’s face. “I don’t do underwear.”

Napoleon led the psychic down the two flights of stairs to his partner’s apartment. Danny waited patiently while the U.N.C.L.E. agent went through the routine of disarming the alarms and unlocking the door before following him through.

Danny glanced curiously around the smaller, more basic apartment. “Your partner earn less than you?”

“No,” Napoleon smiled, “we just have different requirements.”

The apartment was cool, the drapes still drawn from the night before. Napoleon pushed them aside before heading for the bathroom. The wicker laundry basket sat in the corner near the washbasin, its overflowing contents barely contained by the lid. Napoleon lifted it off and pulled out a black tee-shirt sitting on top of the pile.

When he returned to the living room, Danny wasn’t there. He found the inquisitive man in the kitchen, his head stuck in the refrigerator and a chicken drumstick poking out of the side of his mouth. Flipping his long greasy hair out of his eyes, Danny said, “I was looking for a beer, I need to relax. Doesn’t your friend have anything stronger than fruit juice?”

Napoleon sighed. “Since you’re making yourself at home, try the freezer.”

“Freezer?” Danny murmured, but pulled the door open anyway. “Wow. Look at this, he keeps his booze in the ice box.” He pulled out the frosted bottle and poured a generous amount of vodka into a coffee cup. “What have you got there?” he asked the U.N.C.L.E. agent as he swilled down a mouthful of chicken with the potent alcohol.

“One of Illya’s tee-shirts. Will this do?”

Danny took the garment and lifted it to his nose, sniffing like a bloodhound taking the scent. “Yeah, this will do. Let me sit down, and we’ll get started.”

He drained the remaining vodka, dumped the half eaten chicken leg on the counter, and walked back into the living room, planting himself in the middle of the sofa. Napoleon watched as he laid the tee-shirt across his lap and smoothed it out.

Danny began to stroke the cloth gently, as though he were stroking a cat. His shoulders were hunched and tense and he shrugged them trying to loosen up. Suddenly, he stopped, looking up at the U.N.C.L.E. agent. “You know, there’s no guarantee this will work?”

“I know. Just give it a try.”

Danny nodded and returned his attention to the tee-shirt. He took a deep breath and recommenced the stroking, closing his eyes to concentrate better.

It took a minute or two but at last, it was there. He could feel the warm tingle beginning as the link reached out. Starting in the cotton fabric of the tee-shirt, it gathered strength, the heat bleeding into his fingertips and moving slowly up through his arms. When it seeped into his head, Danny relaxed, letting the warm wave flow around the inside of his skull, and carry him back with it as it retreated, sweeping outwards towards its destination. He could feel it drawing nearer the source, nearer still... There! A connection was made. His head jerked back against the sofa and his eyes blinked open. Napoleon crouched down in front of him. “Danny?”

“I’ve found him,” he whispered. From Danny’s perspective, the Russian’s apartment had disappeared around him. The cloth beneath his fingers was replaced by a rough, hard surface. Suddenly, Danny began to shiver violently. “It’s cold, so cold.”

“What do you see?”

“Nothing. Nothing, just darkness. There’s something in here, though. I can hear noises.” His face turned towards the ceiling. “Bats!” he spat out venomously. “There are bats up there. I can hear them flying around. He hates the bats.” His attention went to the floor. “And rats, too.” His nose wrinkled up. “It stinks in here, like the sewers.”

Napoleon moved to sit on the sofa next to the smaller man. “Anything else, Danny? Any other sounds? Can you see anything?”

Danny’s head shook a negative as his teeth began to chatter. “Why’s it so cold?” He looked down at himself. “Oh. I think they took his clothes.” Suddenly, Danny hissed in pain.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“It hurts to move.”

“Where does it hurt?”

“Everywhere. You name it. Jeez, I never felt hurt like this before. Feels like he’s been run over by an eighteen wheeler.” Danny looked towards Napoleon and begged, “I want to stop now, please.”

“Just a little longer. We need a clue as to where he is.”

Danny’s fists rapped at the side of his head. “There’s nothing. It’s cold, it’s dark and it hurts like hell. Please....”

“Okay, calm down.” He pulled the tee-shirt from the psychic’s grasp and watched as the worry lines smoothed out on his face and his rapid breathing slowed. Napoleon couldn’t hide his disappointment.

“Never mind, Danny. You did your best...”

But Maguire interrupted him. “No, I think it will be okay. I think we can find him. I can home in on him with this,” he said, holding the tee shirt aloft. At Napoleon’s puzzled look, he explained, “We go out in the car, take this with us, stop every so often, and I can sense if we’re getting closer or not.”

“Like a direction finder,” Napoleon said. He smiled brightly, “Do you really think this will work?” Maguire nodded an affirmative. “Okay, let’s give it a try.”

 

Illya curled into himself, partly for warmth and partly to comfort his injured right arm and shoulder. The cold, at least, had one benefit: it numbed his body like a mild anaesthesia. If he could just keep still....            

Another bout of uncontrollable shivering shook his body and painfully rattled his damaged bones. He moaned loudly. There was no loss of pride in voicing his discomfort. No one, at the moment, to hear him, anyway. Stoltz paid regular visits, though, staring down at him as though he were something obnoxious he’d discovered on the sole of his shoe. He’d prod hard at the prone figure with his shiny Italian leather shoes, then leave with a satisfied smirk.

Revenge. What a senseless cause to die for. The Russian had always thought it would be in the line of duty. There was nothing noble in losing your life for the sake of retribution.

Something nipped at his bare toes and he kicked out at it. Rats! How he hated them. Attracted by the blood, they occasionally took exploratory nips at his body. Illya had nightmarish visions of them swarming over his carcass, once he became too weak to fight them, anymore. The sound of their scratching competed with the fluttering of wings overhead. Down below, the rats; up above, the bats. Wall to wall vermin. The bats never troubled him, of course, but he had developed an almost paranoid dislike for them during a previous assignment. They roosted in the dark recesses of the ceiling, entering and exiting through a small broken window set high in the wall, its grubby panes forbidding any daylight entry and, therefore, hindering his inspection of his prison. Not that he could do much about it, even if he could see it. His last attempt to break free had ended in him having the fingers of his left hand painfully stomped on by someone’s Cuban-heeled boots.

His injuries, combined with the cold and lack of food and drink, were quickly sapping his strength. He fought the almost constant fatigue, worried that if he slept, he wouldn’t awake.

If ever he needed one of his partner’s timely interventions, it was now. _Napoleon_ , he silently pleaded, _where the hell are you?_

 

They had already covered fifty miles, when Napoleon pulled into a diner to get coffee and use the rest room. Things were going better than he hoped. Danny insisted that they were making good progress and that they were heading in the right direction. It was odd, Napoleon thought, how much he relied on this stranger, putting his faith in a man whose reputation he knew only through a few newspaper clippings. Yet, he had been uncannily correct on so many things.

Napoleon paid for their refreshments at the till and headed back to the car, eager to be on his way. He watched Maguire gulp down the coffee and doughnuts and toss the empty cartons carelessly on the floor behind his seat. Napoleon sighed at this lack of respect for his car but bit back a reprimand. Instead, he picked up the tee-shirt and tossed it in to Maguire’s lap.

“Here. We have to get moving. Get to work.”

“I don’t need it any more. I’m tuned in,” he said, tapping the side of his head. He threw the tee-shirt onto the back seat, next to a discarded coffee cup.

“Tuned in?” Napoleon asked curiously.

“Yes. He’s broadcasting, now.”

“Broadcasting? What do you mean?”

“Broadcasting. It’s difficult to explain. See, I believe everyone is born with this ability. The majority of people lose it during childhood. Some, like me, retain it. Your friend, maybe he still has it, a little. He’s not aware of it, but now he’s in trouble, he’s sending out signals like a sinking ship.” He turned to study Napoleon. “Can’t you feel it? He’s broadcasting to you.”

Napoleon shook his head. He could feel nothing, just the dull ache in his head he always got when his partner was missing or in trouble. But that was just worry--wasn’t it?

Danny continued. “It sometimes happens when people are under stress. The old instincts kick in. I think that’s what happens when I get these feelings. I’m receiving a message that someone is sending out.”

“So, what are your feelings telling you now?”

“That we are very, very close. In fact....” He pointed at a group of buildings in the distance, a black outline against the darkening sky.

                      

Napoleon parked the car in a small copse, two hundred yards from the plant. He checked the clip in his Special one more time as he spoke. “All right, I’m going to take a look around. If things go my way and I can locate Illya, I should be back within a couple of hours, hopefully sooner. You wait here.” He re-holstered the weapon and reached for the door handle.

Danny grabbed his arm. “But what if you run into trouble?”

“Then you run for help.” He started to open the door. Danny tugged at his sleeve. “Maybe I should go with you....”

“Maybe you should stay here.” Napoleon told him firmly, “Keep an eye on the car. And if anything happens, take off. Contact U.N.C.L.E. with the communicator I gave you.” Danny reluctantly nodded agreement and Napoleon finally managed to exit the car.

From the cover of the trees, he zigzagged quickly across the field until he reached the wall at the edge of the property. There, he rested a moment to catch his breath before cautiously peeking over the top of the wall. There were lights on in the office block of the treatment plant and just one man standing guard at the entrance.

The sound of a footfall creeping up behind him made his ears twitch to attention. His gun slipped quickly from the inside of his jacket and he whipped round, almost hitting the intruder in the nose.

Danny Maguire jumped back startled.

“I thought I told you to stay in the car?” Napoleon hissed at him angrily.

“It’s dark in those woods. Besides, I figured maybe I could help. I’m not going back there,” he said adamantly.

Napoleon sighed. “Okay, but you stay when I tell you to stay and run when I tell you to run.”

“I think I can manage that,” he agreed with a shrug.

“Fine. Let’s go. And, stay behind me.”

 

The dart hit the man guarding the door, in the upper shoulder. He spun, a surprised look on his face as his hand frantically reached out towards the red button on the wall. Too late. Napoleon easily batted the limp hand away before it could hit its target, and stowed his gun back inside his jacket. He reached down, placing his hands under the arms of the sleeping figure. “Grab his feet,” Napoleon commanded.

“Why don’t we leave him here?”

“Because, if we hide him in the bushes and someone comes along, they might think he’s just gone to take a leak. It might buy us a little more time.”

After they had stowed the guard out of sight, Napoleon carefully peaked around the door, edging carefully forward into the corridor beyond, and on to a flight of stairs at the end. Napoleon stood still, listening intently. At the end of the corridor he could see a light shining through an open door and hear the muffled murmur of voices. Napoleon crept stealthily on towards the sound, holding up a hand to instruct Maguire to keep behind him. With his gun held out before him, he grasped the handle and pushed the door wide open. Startled, the three men inside spun towards the intruders. Napoleon quickly darted one who was reaching inside his jacket, dropping the man to the ground, before swiftly turning the gun back to cover the remaining two.

“Okay, anybody else?” he asked sharply, but the two remaining men spread their arms in a gesture of submission. “I’m glad we understand each other.” Out of the corner of his eye, Napoleon could see his companion slip through the door to stand beside him. “Danny, check them for weapons. Carefully,” he warned.

Napoleon watched them as Danny cautiously approached the shorter of the two men, patting over the man’s outer garments, before removing a small pistol from his pocket. He tossed it Napoleon’s way before turning towards the other man. This one was tall, intimidating in height, with hair Jean Harlow blond.

The fair haired man watched Maguire approach. Apparently reluctant to receive the same intimate treatment as his friend, he disdainfully opened his jacket to reveal a weighty Magnum secreted beneath. As Danny tugged it free of the holster, Josef Stoltz looked back to Napoleon and asked, “Who are you? And, do you mind telling me what this is all about?”  

Napoleon studied the face before him. The features were familiar, maybe someone he’d seen in a report recently. Illya would probably remember. The man returned Napoleon’s examination with silent contempt, exuding a cool calm that equally matched the U.N.C.L.E. agent’s.

“My name is Napoleon Solo and I’m with the U.N.C.L.E.. And, I’m looking for a friend of mine. Perhaps you’ve seen him around? Blond hair, blue eyes....?”

“Ah. The Russian. Yes, we’ve met. But I’m afraid you’re too late. You came all this way for nothing. Your friend... left. I don’t think he was enjoying our company.”

“He’s lying,” Danny insisted. “He’s here somewhere. I can feel it.”

Stoltz turned his haughty gaze toward the smaller man, glancing over him with distaste. “What’s this? Does U.N.C.L.E. employ itinerants, now?”

Bolstered by the weapon in his hand, Maguire waved the confiscated gun in Stoltz’ face. “Watch your big mouth, blondie.”

“Danny, do you think you could find Illya?” Napoleon asked.

“Yes, I think so. He’s not in this building, though, that’s for sure.”

Stoltz laughed scornfully at the by-play. “What is he, clairvoyant?”

Napoleon returned the smile confidently. “Something like that. Now, gentlemen, if you wouldn’t mind putting these on till we can get back to you.” He tossed two sets of cuffs to Danny, instructing him to secure the men to the cast iron piping running down one wall. Danny completed his task with relish. As he finished, Napoleon told him, “Okay, let’s go find Illya.”

Maguire moved to follow behind, pivoting at the door to call back to Stoltz, “Oh, by the way, blondie. Just so you know, you’re not going to live to see your next birthday. If I were you, I’d quit this business and go to Las Vegas and have some fun.”

He turned back to Napoleon, waving the Magnum, as he asked hopefully, “Can I take this?”

Napoleon nodded. “Sure. Do you know how to use it?”

Maguire shrugged. “Just point and pull the trigger, right?”

Napoleon smiled. “That’s pretty much it.”

They moved quickly back into the corridor, but Danny put a hand on Napoleon’s arm, pulling him to a halt. “Wait!” He stopped by a window looking out onto the rest of the large plant, resting his forehead against the cool glass as he peered into the gloom at the erratic shapes of the buildings outside. He tapped a finger on the pane, saying, “That building over there. The one with all the pipes....” Pleased, he turned to smile smugly at the agent. “That’s where he is.”

They made their way across the open yard quietly, dashing for the cover of the defunct equipment left abandoned in the yard, till they reached the shelter of the doorway to the building Danny had indicated. The door was locked but put up no resistance to the agent’s small explosive charge pushed inside the lock. They crept in cautiously, walking slowly into the area immediately beyond. It opened out into what had once been the busy heart of the plant, its rusting machinery a silent testament to its once frenzied past.

Napoleon walked as quietly as he could between the idle pipes and engines, their footsteps sounding ominously loud on the steel gridding beneath their feet.

Danny slowed to a halt behind him, sniffing at the odorous air. “What the hell is that smell?” he asked, his face creasing with disgust.

“This was a waste plant,” Napoleon pointed out, unnecessarily.

Maguire’s head shook. “No. It smells like the stink bombs we played with, when I was a kid.”

The U.N.C.L.E. agent paused, inhaling the atmosphere around them deeply. “You’re right.” It was the same odor that had been on Dieter’s clothing--sulpher.

He walked on till they came to the end of the decommissioned machinery and into a cleaner, clearer area. There were signs of recent activity here. To one side, next to some empty crates and drums, paper wrapped parcels had been neatly stacked and labeled with names and addresses. The U.N.C.L.E. agent picked through the pile, one package at a time. They all appeared to be addressed to various members of the Senate. Napoleon suspected they didn’t contain party donations--not the kind they would prefer, anyway. A large sorting table was covered in packing materials and, in one spot, the table was stained with a film of black powder. Napoleon dipped his fingers in the dust, sniffing at the compound.

“What is it?” Danny asked.

“I don’t know, but if our hosts have anything to do with it, you can bet it’s not a herbal cure for insomnia.” He pulled a small backpack from his shoulders, dropping it to the floor, and started to withdraw a number of small explosive devices.

“What are you going to do?” Danny asked.

“Put their postal service out of commission for good,” Napoleon replied.

Without warning, a shot rang out and tiny pieces of cement stung Napoleon’s cheek as a bullet ricocheted off the wall, to near his face for comfort. Instinctively, he pushed the table over for cover, and blindly returned fire in the direction it came from.

At the sound of the first shot, Danny rapidly disappeared from sight, finding refuge behind the large, metal drums. The heavy Magnum in his pocket clanked against the side of the barrel, reminding Danny of its presence. He pulled it out for reassurance, his hands shaking as he released the safety catch.

Napoleon slid along the floor to the end of the extent of his cover, risking a quick look around the edge. He ducked back as another shot took a chunk of wood out of the end of the table. His brief survey of the area where the shots had come from revealed nothing from this angle. He had decided to move down to the other end of the table and try again, when he heard a loud, cannon shot from behind him and an answering cry of pain from their assailant in front.

Danny jumped from his hiding place, shouting gleefully, “I got him!”

Napoleon rose too, watching the injured man leap from the cover of his hideout, nursing a badly bleeding hand. Napoleon walked forward, covering him with his special. Maguire joined him, a look of pride on his face.

“Good shot,” Napoleon told him, genuinely impressed.

Danny’s head shook with mock disappointment. “Not really. I was aiming for his head.”

Napoleon raised his weapon to the man’s temple, telling him, “Okay, this one won’t miss. Where’s Illya Kuryakin?”

The man shrank away, trembling as he hugged his bleeding hand to his chest. “In...in the storeroom, through that door,” he added, nodding towards a steel door.

“Key?”

“Top pocket.” He pulled his hand away from the comfort of his chest to allow Napoleon to fish about his breast pocket. Pulling out a small key ring, Napoleon stepped back and tossed them over to Danny.

“Now,” Napoleon said to the injured man. “If you wouldn’t mind taking off your jacket and pants....” The man frowned, puzzled by the request, but hurried to comply. Encumbered as he was, he disrobed quickly, dropping the items at Napoleon’s feet. “Shoes, too,” Napoleon added as he gathered the items up, passing them to Maguire. “Danny, you go for Illya, take these, they might be useful. I’m going to stay here and arrange a little fireworks display.” He waited till Danny went through the door, then turned back to his prisoner. “If I were you, I’d be as far away as possible from this place in the next five minutes.” He didn’t need telling twice. With a brief glance back to make sure Napoleon wasn’t going to shoot him in the back, he trotted, bare foot, towards the exit Napoleon and Maguire had come through.

 

Illya heard the door being opened and inwardly groaned. Either his sense of time was getting muddled or Stoltz was early for his hourly gloat.

The beam of a flashlight skittered about the floor till it came to rest on his face. He closed his eyes against the glare and waited.

“Mr. Kuryakin?” Illya opened his eyes at the quiet formality in the question, trying to see past the light. The unfamiliar voice continued, muttering to himself, “Of course you are, how many other naked blonds could there be here?”   The stranger crouched down, gently touching his shoulder. “I’m here to help. Can you stand? I have some clothes here for you.”

The Russian nodded. “I think so.” He hissed with pain as Maguire hooked a hand under his good arm and helped him up. After three attempts, he stood, with all the self assurance of a two minute old calf, wobbling dangerously till Danny propped him up against the wall. He looked the U.N.C.L.E. agent over in the pale illumination coming through the open door. “Boy, you look a mess.”

“Thanks,” the Russian managed to croak. He studied the scruffy man before him as a jacket was draped around his shoulders. “Please don’t think me ungrateful, but who are you?”

“Danny Maguire, at your service.” Danny held out his hand but pulled it back when he saw the Russian’s swollen fingers. “We’ll have you out of here in a minute, just as soon as your buddy finishes his business.”

“Buddy? Napoleon is here? How did you find me?”

“You were sending out signals a deaf man could here.” Illya merely looked at him with a puzzled expression. “I’ll explain it later,” Danny said. “Meanwhile, you need to get into these clothes. Here, let me help.”

Illya studied his rescuer as he bent to tug a pair of roomy pants over the agent’s bare legs. There was something familiar about this man. He was sure he’d never seen him before, and yet... “Have we met somewhere before?”

“Not in a physical sense.” He grinned at the blond’s perplexed expression as he pushed a pair of loafers onto the cold feet. They were a size too big, but they would have to do. “There. Come on, we have to get out of here.”

Napoleon met them at the door, reaching an arm around his partner’s waist to help him along. Illya leaned heavily against him, gasping with pain at every footstep.

“Is that the quickest you can go? I’ve planted some explosives and the detonators only have a ten minute timer on them.”

Illya glared at him. “My apologies. I appear to be a little out of condition.”

“That’s what comes with lying around all day.” Napoleon stopped suddenly and, without warning, bent over, lifting his partner over one shoulder.

“Napoleon!” Illya objected strongly. This was so undignified--not to mention painful.

“Sorry, no time to argue. We have to get out of this plant before it blows”

The trio left quickly and when Napoleon was certain they had put enough distance between them and the building, he turned to watch as the first in a series of explosions lit up the night sky.

Illya, whose vista consisted solely of Napoleon’s backside, wriggled about in his partner’s grip. “I want to see,” he demanded petulantly.

Napoleon grinned as he lowered his partner to stand shakily on the ground beside him. Illya had a worrying propensity for such displays of destruction. After a few moments, he heard Illya sigh in satisfaction, then the body leaning against him went limp as his partner passed out.

Napoleon lowered him gently to the ground before pulling out his communicator and calling for assistance.

 

Napoleon stepped out of Del Floria’s and breathed in the welcome, New York air. Headquarters was a stuffy, windowless construction, and the recycled oxygen had a stale quality to it that Napoleon decided was probably unhealthy. He turned to offer assistance to his partner as the Russian squeezed out through the door behind him.

Illya looked like he’d tried to pick a fight with Rocky Marciano. The bruises on his face were in full bloom, flowering in varying shades of cerise and blue. Two fingers on his left hand were splintered, and his plastered right arm was carried close to his body in a sling.

Danny Maguire followed them up to the top of the steps, barely able to conceal his excitement. Earlier in the day, accompanied by Napoleon, he’d wandered the complex in awe, inspecting his surroundings with his usual sense of curiosity. At one point, Napoleon had narrowly averted a full scale alert, catching hold of Maguire’s inquiring fingers before they could touch a row of buttons on Waverley’s desk. It was something of a relief to have the man out of the building.

“That’s some place, you got there,” Danny said, excitedly.

“Thanks,” Napoleon replied with a touch of pride. “You know, you could see it more often if you reconsidered our offer.” Impressed by Maguire’s ability, Waverley had suggested that perhaps Danny’s talents could be a useful asset to the firm.

“To work for U.N.C.L.E.? Thanks, but no thanks. Working nine to five isn’t my idea of fun. No, while things are quiet in the old cerebral department, I figured I might take a trip to England. I have a cousin, lives in Kent. Says it’s quiet there. Maybe I can get some peace for a while, huh?”

Illya held out his splintered left hand and awkwardly shook Danny’s finger tips. “Thank you, once again, for your help, Mr. Maguire. I shall say good-bye, I don’t think we will meet again.”

Danny smiled. “Now, what makes you say that?”

“I have a feeling in my bones.” He winced in pain, shifting uncomfortably as he added, “The ones that aren’t broken.”

“Trust those feelings,” Danny advised him with a grin. He watched as Napoleon carefully helped his partner into the passenger seat of the car before turning back towards him.

“Are you sure we can’t offer you a lift somewhere?” Napoleon asked.

“Nah. Think I’ll make the most of the sunshine. Take care, boys.” He stood back and watched as Napoleon slid into the driving seat. As he reached for the ignition, Danny tapped on the window and the agent wound it down.

“By the way, fellas? Don’t go home by Brooklyn Bridge,” Danny advised them.

Napoleon and his partner exchanged a worried glance. “Why? Will there be an accident?” he asked the psychic.

“No, but the radio said traffic’s a real bitch tonight. Take the Manhattan instead. It’ll be much quicker.”

Napoleon smiled. “Thanks, Danny, we will. Take care of yourself.”

“Sure. Oh, and Mr. Solo? Have a nice night, tonight. Italian’s a good choice.” He gave the agent a conspiratorial wink before walking away without a backward glance.

Illya settled as comfortably as he could in the passenger seat and sighed. “A little disconcerting, isn’t it? Someone knowing you so well.”

Napoleon just grunted as his partner grinned. “Where to, Mr. Kuryakin? Home?”

“No. To Dieter’s apartment first. He has two lodgers who need a place to stay. I thought I’d take them home with me.”

“Oh? One wouldn’t be female, by any chance?”

Illya sighed, impatient with Napoleon’s one-track mind. “I don’t know, I didn’t look.”

As Napoleon pulled away from the kerb, Illya’s busy mind puzzled over the problem of determining the sex of a fish.

**The End**

 


End file.
